


Who We Are, Were, and Will Become

by DontTapTheGlass



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Crowley-centric (Good Omens), First Kiss, Found family because I'm gay, Godparents Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Graphic description of Falling, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Multi, Not Really Character Death, Post-Canon, Weddings, becoming human, kind of, mentioned Hastur/Ligur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 07:38:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19848577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontTapTheGlass/pseuds/DontTapTheGlass
Summary: Once upon a time, there was an angel that dragged a demon out of Hell. As a result, both were caught somewhere in the middle.or: An angel and a demon fall in love, scare each other to death, and become human.





	Who We Are, Were, and Will Become

**Author's Note:**

> i am my own editor. please be kind.

=+= 

Once upon a time there was an angel that crafted the stars.

He colored in nebulas and blew dust across space; he poked holes in the black infinity and said let there be light to shine through. The angel took pride in his work, and the way his beloved friends’ eyes twinkled at the beauty inspired him to have the stars twinkle the same.

But then Earth was created and the rest of the universe was quickly left to its own expansion as angels and the Almighty alike planned a garden – a garden, wasn’t that lovely? The angel loved the idea of a flourishing green haven. He wanted to love it, the earth, and he did, but it seemed that the Almighty was forgetting about the rest of the universe – about _them_. So much focus on one silly rock, it was truly ridiculous.

But who was he to question the Almighty and the others?

_Who_ indeed.

=+=

Once upon a time there was a demon that was once an angel that crafted the stars.

=+=

Once upon a time, there was a demon named Anthony J. Crowley.

“Anthony Janthony Crowley,” Aziraphale poked every time he heard Crowley refer to himself as Anthony.

And there was an angel named Ezra Fell.

“I’m never going to call you _Ezra_ , angel.”

“Well it isn’t for _you_ to call me that, Crowley,” Aziraphale bustled about the shop with a feather duster. Anathema and Newt were coming over and one little tease from Crowley sent the angel into a cleaning frenzy. “It’s just for documents and such.”

“Documents?”

“Yes. Documents. Like the papers for the shop and my bills and –“

Crowley lost interest. “You know you could just miracle away the dust, angel.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I’m trying to give the place a good honest clean, my dear.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, adjusting his position on the couch a little bit. “ _Ezra Fell_ ,” he scoffed.

Once upon a time there was a demon and an angel and they stopped the apocalypse. But that was almost four years ago now, and they were still here. As many miracles as they cast, _that_ was the biggest miracle of all.

“Oh, they’ll be here any minute,” Aziraphale huffed, looking at the dusty shop, distraught.

Crowley sighed. He waved a hand and the shop was dust free.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him. “You didn’t have to do that, my dear.” This would’ve been more convincing had he not sounded to pleased. “But thank you, _Anthony_.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. The angel smirked and went off to the kitchen. (Crowley wasn’t sure whether he’d come back with tea or wine, but he certainly knew which he’d prefer.)

Four years since Armageddon, and the two supernatural entities had been practically living out of each other’s pockets. Crowley’s flat had a strange assortment of books and tea cups from the angel’s consistent visits, and the bookshop had some new occupants itself, most notably a content ficus in the corner of the store that was slowly recovering from the PTSD of Crowley’s care. Their lives were stained with each other, it seemed, and Crowley often had to remind himself that Aziraphale was in fact an angel, not just some random immortal friend. He was the opposite of Crowley. Or something. Crowley couldn’t care less at this point.

There was a knock at the door, which of course stated that the shop was closed. Crowley could only assume it was Anathema and (unfortunately) Newt. Aziraphale was still dinking around in the back, so it seemed it was up to the demon to let them in. Crowley let out a small annoyed sound and stood up.

He opened the door just enough to stick his head out, and ah, there was the happy couple.

“Can’t you see that we’re closed?” Crowley grinned.

Anathema smiled back just as bright. “Well open up, we’re very important customers.”

Crowley opened the door wider, and the witch threw her arms around him in a hug. Ah, yes. Hugs. Crowley hugged her back, if only because last time he refused one of her hugs she complained with a brash “Oh, too evil for hugs, you snakey man-child?” to which Crowley could only mutter “I’m not a man-child.” Luckily Newt, who shuffled in after her, only went in for a good-natured handshake. Good. Crowley wasn’t hugging anyone he didn’t need to.

“Oh!” Aziraphale appeared from the kitchen as they settled onto couches in the back room, a tray of tea cups and sugar in hand. A tea pot steamed on the table. Damn. He set the tray down on the table. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

“Wonderful to see you, _Mr. Fell_ ,” Anathema said his name like a tease and the angel tutted in annoyance. Ah yes, this is why Anathema was Crowley’s favorite.

The four of them settled on couches, Anathema leaning into Newt’s shoulder on one couch, and Aziraphale and Crowley on the opposite one, the demon in his typical sprawl with an arm slung over the back of the couch. Aziraphale was fussing over his guests and serving tea, and said guests were doing their best to not snicker at his childlike glee at hosting. Crowley snickered openly.

“So, let me see the ring,” Aziraphale all but cooed as afternoon tea had turned into a pre-meal wine, excitement rolling off him in waves. Anathema flushed lightly and offered the angel her left hand where a rather beautiful silver band adorned her ring finger. It looked like a ring of silver vines with a simple green emerald in the center. Aziraphale’s smile was so bright Crowley was glad he was wearing his sunglasses.

“Nicely done, Pulsifer,” Crowley nodded to the perpetually nervous young man who seemed to be awaiting some sort of validation. He smiled at the praise.

“We were thinking a summer wedding so then the kids will be off school,” Newt offered. “It’ll be nothing big. Probably just a backyard wedding, but it’d mean a lot to get everyone together for it.”

“That sounds lovely, my boy,” Aziraphale was practically overflowing with love for the newly-engaged couple. “If there’s any way I can be of assistance in planning, then do not hesitate to let me know.”

The four of them went to Crowley’s favorite dumpling place for dinner that night and the conversation never so much as slowed down. It was all gossip about mutual friends – Adam’s new girlfriend who Anathema didn’t like and Shadwell’s newfound appreciation for witches that Newt found annoying as all hell – and life updates – the progress on Anathema’s book and talk about Crowley’s recent endeavors in growing cacti. It was comfortable and warm and _loving_ and –

And sometimes, Crowley had to stop participating in the conversation and just soak it in. He was a demon, and yet here he was surrounded by people he loved. It took his breath away sometimes. He wondered if he deserved it. He probably didn’t.

As Anathema and Newt were waiting for their taxi home that evening, Aziraphale and Newt got caught in some heated debate about a strange particular of computer science history – “Newt, my boy, I was _there_. I should know.” A laugh. “You’re right, you _should_. So it’s weird that you don’t.” – Anathema looked at her demon friend.

“So. A demon and an angel, huh?” Anathema’s voice was just loud enough to be heard by the demon, but not enough so to draw either of the bickering men’s attention.

Crowley did _not blush thank you very much_. “Whatever you’re getting at, quit it. ‘s not like that.”

The witch’s smirk faltered slightly. “Well, why not?” Her smile turned softer. “C’mon, Anthony. You guys deserve a happy ending more than anyone.”

“Yeah…” Crowley watched the angel do the best to not lose his temper as he muttered on about Alan Turing to Anathema’s stupid fiancé. “Yeah, he does.”

Crowley and Aziraphale waved the couple’s taxi off and for a moment they stood silently on the sidewalk, the still peace of the city at night settling into their bones. Crowley turned to his angel.

“Could I bother you for a cup of tea before I head out?”

Aziraphale smiled warmly. “Of course, my dear.”

Once upon a time, there was an angel and a demon, and they were meant to be enemies.

But that’s not how this story goes.

=+=

Once upon a time, there was an angel that asked questions. He watched one friend after another fall – over and over, Azrael and Anpiel and Lucifer and – and he said nothing nothing nothing. He went to Gabriel, demanded answers for his friends’ wrongdoings. He demanded love for his friends still remaining. He tried so hard to find God’s mercy in the archangels, tried to love them as they did not love him.

But then he fell.

=+=

Four years and two months after the end of the end of the world, the city grew dark and two supernatural beings sat in a bookshop. There was no red wine, no excuse of ‘thwarting’ each other’s deeds, no shy offers of a meal together. Aziraphale sat reading another one of those silly adventure books that Adam recommended (why he humors that boy, Crowley will never know) while Crowley went about making tea in the kitchen, as per the angel’s request. They didn’t speak, but the shared time together felt like a breath of freedom. Crowley would never say it aloud, but he found these days he could never relax unless he was with a certain angel.

As he waited for the kettle to heat, Crowley pulled two mugs from the cupboard. He noticed a crack in his favorite of Aziraphale’s mugs – the dumb one that’s all black but stars appear when you pour hot liquid into it – and frowned. He pulled out Aziraphale’s mug – the one with the angel wing handle that was so painfully ironic Crowley couldn’t even hate it - setting his own mug down and idly miracle-ing away the crack.

Remember this moment as the beginning.

In the other room he heard the phone ring and the sound of Aziraphale shuffling to pick it up. He listened idly, picking up bits of the angel’s conversation with who he could only assume to be Pepper based on Aziraphale’s side of the conversation – “What? I’m an angel, my child, not a genie. I can’t just make Brian and Wensleydale stop arguing.” – and watched the kettle steam weakly.

Once upon a time, they say, an angel asked a question and was cast out of heaven. Crowley thinks of this angel often, these days, wondered what he’d do with eternity. He wondered if that angel would ever find his answer.

He thinks he remembers God, sometimes. He knows that’s crazy because no angel has seen God in the flesh (he thinks) and so he knows that there’s no reason to believe he knows what the Almighty looks like, really, but he _swears_ that he can remember God.

Somewhere far away in his memory, he took the hand of God and showed her his creations like a child showing off their artwork, except instead of macaroni necklaces it was galaxies. He remembers a soft stroke to his hair in appreciation and a welling sense of pride. He thinks remembers God’s twinkling eyes like supernovas warming him to his core. He remembers a glimpse of love and then sudden cold of being forsaken, then the heat of falling. He thinks he remembers flashes of white wings and soft smiles of angels and the calling of God and falling and falling and burning and screaming and falling and –

_“Crowley_ , dear -!”

A hand grabbed onto his arm, pulling him out of his thought. The kettle was screaming with steam and Crowley’s knuckles were white with the grip he had on the counter. Aziraphale was gripping his sleeve, staring at him with big worried eyes, shaking slightly and lip wobbling.

Crowley eased his grip on the counter.

He’s not falling. He’s making tea.

“Sorry, I’m okay, I’m okay,” Crowley muttered, shrugging off Aziraphale’s hand from his arm. The angel snatched his hand away as if burnt by Crowley’s movement.

For a moment they just stared at each other, Aziraphale’s big eyes trying to see something of an expression behind Crowley’s bulky sunglasses. The kettle screamed on in the silence between them, and it felt as though the moment is loaded with a question.

And questions, as Crowley knows, are a dangerous thing.

You see, once upon a time there was an angel –

Aziraphale slid by Crowley to take the kettle off the heat. The demon stepped back as if spooked. He muttered a quick “I should – right, I -” and slinked out of the kitchen.

Aziraphale made an aborted noise in attempt to stop him, but in the end he could really only watch him leave.

Once upon a time, things began to change.

=+=

Once upon a time, Crowley met a priest at a diner in Camden. It was two days after he’d left the bookshop in an embarrassed flurry.

As Crowley sipped his coffee, the Father chatted brightly with the waitress behind the counter. He was young for a priest. He had one of those silly collar things on and laugh lines, and Crowley couldn’t help but think of Gabriel a little when looking at him – the holy vibe and the jawline are probably what did it.

The priest raised an eyebrow at Crowley. He’d been staring.

“You okay there?” he asked.

“Next person who asks me that is getting bit,” Crowley quickly looked back to his cup of coffee.

The Father scooted so he was in the seat next to Crowley at the counter. “Nothing to eat?”

“Not hungry.”

“Not even a slice of pie? My treat?” the Father smiled. A priest tempting a demon into a meal, isn’t that a little ironic? Crowley narrowed his eyes at him (not that the priest could see behind the sunglasses, of course).

“Not much on sweets, Father,” Crowley sipped his coffee. “Why don’t you just give me your pitch or whatever and let me be?”

The Priest looked at him strangely but smiled none-the-less. He held out a hand. “Father Thomas,” he introduced himself.

The demon accepted the handshake. “Anthony Crowley.”

Once upon a time, a demon had a little faith.

=+=

( _Can a demon rise? Can a demon become good? Can an angel fall back to heaven?_ )

Crowley doesn’t sleep that night.

=+=

He asked questions. That was his sin.

He was an angel once, he knows. He wished he could remember it – the feeling of being _good_ and being expected to be _good_ and to be surrounded by _love_ and –

In the beginning he had heard about the Garden of Eden, about a male and a female human, about a tree with forbidden fruit and –

And he had heard about an angel guard with a flaming sword.

He volunteered before he could even process what he was doing. He still isn’t quite sure why he did that.

And that’s how Crawly ended up tempting Eve – he tempted Adam, too, but the mainstream narrative will have you forget that. He watched Eve take that damned bite and then watched Adam’s mind go from tasting the fruit of sin to tasting Eve’s skin. He watched them leave, watched that flaming sword be passed to Adam’s hands as Eve gripped her swelling belly.

He stood atop the east gate with an angel and laughed about having done good – because wouldn’t that just be fucked up? Wouldn’t that be totally bananas? – and he knows that once he was an angel.

He wonders what it was like to be good.

He wonders what it was like to be loved.

Which is ridiculous because when he came back to the bookshop after four days of radio silence, Aziraphale all but froze in surprise and worry and joy and –

Crowley didn’t like hugs, this has already been established. But Aziraphale took big strides across the room and threw his arms around the demon’s torso, and Crowley took only a moment before returning the hug just as tightly.

“Sorry,” Crowley whispered into the angel’s soft curls.

“Oh, you old fool,” Aziraphale pulled away to hold the demon at arm’s length, staring him squarely in the eyes. “You know I forgive you. But I swear to all that’s holy, Crowley, if you _ever_ do that to me again –“

“I won’t. Promise.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips in a little annoyed frown.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

How could he ever doubt that he was loved?

=+=

See, Crowley didn’t want to be a demon. Crowley didn’t much want to be, well, _Crowley._ He wanted to be a better man – a normal man. Not bad, not good, just… Anthony Crowley, normal plant-grower and car enthusiast.

See, after the Apocawasn’t, Crowley started texting Anathema more, started talking to Shadwell on the phone and sending Adam and the kids memes. Newt called him before proposing to Anathema, asking for his blessing and getting a yes. Crowley hung up the phone and cried after that one. He’d always wanted to know what it was like to have kids, in truth, and now look at him: the Them and Anathema basically claimed Aziraphale and Crowley as their strange godfathers. It made it hard to breathe, sometimes.

What I’m trying to tell you is that Crowley wanted to be someone else – someone functional – someone _real._ He wanted to be the weird godfather to a couple of creative kids and a friend to a small variety of freaks, but he didn’t want to watch them all grow old and die.

Crowley didn’t want to be a demon.

Crowley didn’t want to live in fear of hell.

Once upon a time, someone must’ve heard him.

=+=

Anathema and Newt married on a beautiful day in late June almost five years after the world was supposed to end.

It was a small enough crowd to fit in the backyard of the Jasmine Cottage where the couple had been living since that fated day. Anathema wore a beautiful though simple gown with forest green accents, and Newt looked at her like she hung the sun in the sky. Madame Tracy was the officiant, a fact that peeved Aziraphale even though he wouldn’t admit his jealousy.

Aziraphale and Crowley sat next to Anathema’s and Newt’s respective mothers during the ceremony and by the end of the vows the four of them were all crying (though Crowley would continue to deny it for years to come). Shadwell even dabbed his eyes a few times during the ceremony, and he couldn’t deny that fact as he was in front of everyone too, being Newt’s best man and all.

The reception was just as chaotic as one would assume with Anathema and Newt’s group of friends. The cake cutting ended with both Device-Pulsifers covered in cake, laughing wildly, and the first dance was charming if only because Newt was obviously so focused on the woman in his arms that nobody even cared his dancing was shit. The faster songs were fueled in energy by the Them and Crowley’s frankly horrendous albeit excited dancing, and the slow songs had an air of romance about them as couples swayed lightly in time with the music.

Crowley sat on the edge of the dance floor during such slow songs, watching Shadwell and Tracy chatter and flirt as they slowly spun around the floor, Newt and Anathema off in their own little world, and the kids awkwardly asking one another to dance. (Lord, Crowley was glad he never had to suffer through being sixteen.) Adam danced with his much-talked-about girlfriend – Carol or Karen or something? – and Crowley couldn’t help but be intrigued by the spectacle that was Pepper dancing with a very intimidated looking Brian. Wensleydale, always the smartest of them, favored the potluck over the dancing.

“I suppose you aren’t much for the slower songs, are you?”

The demon all but jumped as Aziraphale appeared next to him, two glasses of red wine in hand, one of which he gave Crowley. The angel’s eyes drifted over the crowd of swaying people, smiling softly.

“Nah, not really. I’d probably just step on someone’s foot anyway,” Crowley sipped his wine. “No. No slow dancing for me, angel.”

Aziraphale seemed to steal himself for a moment. “Pity.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Well,” a faint blush dusted across the angel’s cheeks. “I might’ve asked you to dance, otherwise.”

Crowley looked at him, feeling his own cheeks grow warm. “That so?”

And for a moment, Crowley just… took him in. Aziraphale, who had been his best friend for six thousand years. He took in the old-fashioned suit jacket, the tartan pocket square, the pale bow tie. He dragged his eyes over the pale curls that were steadily growing into unruliness, not that he was complaining, and his trusting steady gaze. There was the slight pudge of his stomach that Crowley knew he was self-conscious of, and the soft wrinkles around his eyes. The thought popped into his head before he could even process it, just one word: _Beautiful._

Once upon a time, they deserved a happily ever after. That’s what Anathema had told him.

“Well, I mean… I could… I could be tempted to a dance, I suppose.” Crowley felt his heart hammering away in his chest.

And Crowley knows they must’ve set down their wine glasses, knows they must’ve taken a moment to really agree that they were doing this – that they were _acknowledging_ this, whatever _this_ was. But suddenly they were among the swaying couples, an angelic hand on his shoulder and in his own. One of Crowley’s hands was lightly on the angel’s waist, the other holding up Aziraphale’s hand. They weren’t really _dancing_ , per se, as much as they were just swaying back and forth, but all the same it felt almost like too much to the demon.

“Crowley?”

The demon met Aziraphale’s eyes and found them to be a lot closer than he expected. His breath hitched.

“Is this… it this okay?” Aziraphale looked slightly nervous.

And Crowley held his angel just a little closer, soothed his thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. He smiled, and although he was frankly scared as hell, he felt right. This was… right. _Ineffable._

“Never better, angel.” And it didn’t sound like a teasing nickname for once: _angel_. It was soft. Endearing.

Aziraphale smiled.

The dance came to an end.

=+=

It was a silent ride back to London that night, no words exchanged and no music playing, just the sound of wind whistling past the Bentley and the occasional whimper as Crowley took a corner too fast for Aziraphale’s taste.

When they pulled up to the bookshop, Aziraphale turned to Crowley.

“Would you like to come inside for a bit, dear?”

Something felt wrong about this moment. Loaded. Like something was about to change. Crowley agreed to the invitation.

Inside, Aziraphale didn’t open a bottle of wine, didn’t make any tea, didn’t try to show Crowley this book or that book. He closed the shop door and fiddled with his hands, eyes looking anywhere but the demon who was standing in the middle of the shop looking rather concerned with his oldest friend.

“Angel, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Crowley took a step closer to him. It was a nice change of pace to not be the one being worried for, but the demon preferred the angel to be at ease.

“Crowley, my dear, you must know that I have a great deal of affection for you,” Aziraphale looked up at the demon. “I know that I spent years fighting that fact because of what I thought I was supposed to do, but Heaven and Hell can't touch us now. And I know I can’t undo everything that Hell and Heaven did to you, because they've wronged you much, darling, but I want you to feel safe with me. Like I do. Feel safe. With you.”

Crowley was all but frozen. “What’s this about, angel?”

Aziraphale slowly stepped closer to the demon, gently removing his sunglasses and placing them on the table beside them. Crowley’s eyes were wide, but they were also trusting. Aziraphale took a calloused hand into his own divinely soft ones. Both entities looked down at their joined hands, locked into this moment. It felt like someone had paused the world around them – it was only an angel and a demon and the feeling of hands. Aziraphale rested their entwined hands against his chest.

“I’ve was talking to Anathema and… and she said we deserve a happy ending,” Aziraphale was blushing, looking up at Crowley with hopeful eyes. “A ‘happily ever after’ and all that. And I agree. There’s no angelic rule, no demons to harm us, there’s just… just us.”

“Our side,” Crowley breathed, looking softly down at his angel.

“Exactly.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand lightly.

_“Angel_ ,” Crowley dipped his head down and leaned his forehead against the angel's, who's eyelids fluttered shut. Crowley rested a hand against the back of his neck.

And he kissed him.

Once upon a time, a demon fell asleep wrapped in the arms of an angel.

Once upon a time, he allowed himself to believe in a happily ever after.

=+=

_(Can a demon rise? Can a demon become something better? Can I be better for him? Please?)_

_(An angel can fall and fall and fall again, my boy. But a demon can never rise.)_

_=+=_

Crowley found himself losing time more often these days.

It would happen unexpectedly. His mind would begin to drift to a moment he did not recall, and suddenly he would be drawn out by Aziraphale at his arm or a memory shaking him to his core.

He was shelving books for Aziraphale maybe two weeks after the Pulsifer-Device wedding and lost ten minutes to a memory about an angel with an axe. He was watering his plants in his flat when he lost six minutes to a memory about Michael and her sword. He was heating up leftover Chinese food for Aziraphale when he lost eight minutes to a memory about an angel turning to ash.

Aziraphale worried.

When he found the demon in such a state, zoned out and tense in some freeze frame of an action, he would coax Crowley back to reality with words and touches and gently kisses to the forehead and cheek. Crowley would be shaky, would be wide-eyed and rattled, but he wouldn’t run. Small miracles.

Crowley was fine up until these episodes, teasing and flirting and leaving little kisses on Aziraphale’s hands and neck and face. It was a nice change from the past six thousand years, being able to touch like this. Aziraphale had stayed the night at Crowley’s before, but it was nice to trade in the couch for Crowley’s bed and Crowley’s embrace.

He was quite charmed to learn that Crowley liked to be the little spoon, or, more precisely, that he would snuggle against Aziraphale’s chest and bury his face in the angel’s shirt, wrapping his arms around him like a teddy bear and letting his long legs tangle with the angel’s.

It was on such a night that Aziraphale whispered into the darkness “Why won’t you let me help you?”, his arms wrapped around Crowley’s lean shoulders, his nose nestled into the demon’s hair. It was well past midnight, and while Aziraphale had figured Crowley was asleep, the warm body curled into his chest tensed at his question.

“Angel, please…”

“I’m _scared_ for you, Crowley,” Aziraphale gently dragged his fingers along Crowley’s back. “I don’t understand why you lock up like you do.”

Once upon a time an angel tried to help the people he loved, tried to stand up for them and ended up falling instead and –

“Do you think I’m not scared, angel?” Crowley pressed his face into Aziraphale’s chest. “I don’t even know how to expl –“

Once upon a time an angel marched up to the archangel Gabriel and screamed _Why are you hurting my friends? What did we do? Why don’t you love us like we love you?_ and Gabriel looked at him and said _You’re joking right?_ and our angel roamed heaven for three days, tears falling from his face as he watched more of his friends fall, and then he was burning and –

_“ – ley? Crowley?”_ Aziraphale’s face swam into focus, the soft lamplight making his features _warm_ despite the panic playing out on his face. One hand was gently cradling Crowley’s face, the other gripping the fabric of his t-shirt like a lifeline. Crowley let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and gently placed his own hand over Aziraphale’s.

“I’m okay.”

Aziraphale gripped his shirt tighter if possible, his lip quivering. “ _Do not_ run away from me again. Let me help you. Please, for the love of God, Crowley.”

“How?” Crowley felt out of his depth. He felt as though he was floating and faintly worried whether or not this whole interaction was real.

“ _Talk_ to me, my dear,” the angel all but begged.

Crowley blinked. “I don’t know if I can.”

“ _Try_ ,” Aziraphale moved the hand from his face to grip the demon’s hand. “Please, try.”

Crowley squeezed his angel’s hand, a tear slipping down his face.

“Okay. I can try.”

=+=

_(Please. Can I be better?)_

_(You already are.)_

=+=

Once upon a time there was an angel and a demon getting wasted in a rare bookshop.

The angel held said demon’s hand as he stuttered out his confessions.

_(Bless me, angel, for I have sinned. I have never been to confession. These are my sins.)_

“Demons - we aren’t supposed to have dreams, angel. We aren’t supposed to be kind, we aren’t supposed to have flashbacks. We aren’t supposed to feel remorse or love.”

Crowley downed his cup of wine. Aziraphale’s grip on his hand tightened.

“And demons definitely aren’t supposed to remember being an angel.”

“You… You remember that?” the angel blinked widely.

“In bits and pieces, here and there. It comes in flashes when I don’t expect it, you know?”

Aziraphale studied his friend, looking for something that he wasn’t sure he’d find.

“What do you remember?”

Crowley chuckled darkly. “I remember that not all of us made it.”

The bookshop suddenly felt cold. Aziraphale didn’t push.

Aziraphale made them tea when the wine ran out (or Aziraphale decided the wine ought to run out), adding two sugars to Crowley’s favorite mug and a splash of milk to his own. Crowley was still tipsy, and he grinned as the heat-activated stars appeared on the black mug.

They chatted about smaller things as the night drifted on – Brian and Pepper’s relationship, Madame Tracy’s new baking hobby, books Aziraphale was tracking down – and eventually Crowley fell asleep on the couch.

Aziraphale soothed a hand through the demon’s hair, gently kissing his forehead.

He didn’t understand. But he swore he would do all he could to help him.

=+=

_(What is happening to me?)_

_(….)_

_(What are you doing to me?)_

=+=

Later, as Aziraphale put Crowley’s favorite mug back in the cupboard, he noticed a crack. With a huff, the angel miracled it away.

If mugs could, then this mug would be having déjà vu.

=+=

Once upon a time there was an angel. This angel did not fall. He remained in heaven and fought in a war with a flaming sword, and the entire time he was watching out for friends. The demons were once angels, they said, and that meant Azrael and Raphael and Anpiel and Morningstar were _out there_ somewhere. The angel cried with each blow he dealt, but he was a soldier and they all said this was God’s plan, so who was he to question it?

Once upon a time there was a demon. This demon was once an angel that asked too many questions. This demon fought in a war, he thinks. He has hazy memories of diving into pools of Sulphur and rising from said pools with blackened wings and a call to battle. He recalls an angel facing him in battle, his sword shining with fire, and the demon – he _recognized_ him.

If a demon’s heart could break, then it would have in that moment as he ran from the sword and the angel and the war and –

=+=

_(Can a demon rise? What does it rise to? Tell me. Tell me!)_

He received no answer.

=+=

“Father, what does it take to get to heaven?”

Father Thomas’s sigh crackled over the phone.

“How about I buy you a cup of coffee, Anthony.”

“Same place as last time?”

“That’ll do. Get some sleep, brother.”

=+=

Almost five and a half years after the world didn’t end, Crowley moved into the apartment above Aziraphale’s shop. All he brought, in truth, was his plants, the Mona Lisa sketch, and his astronomy books. Aziraphale miracled an extra shelf for the books and placed the sketch on display in the bedroom, and Crowley miracled a sunny room for the plants –

And Crowley miracled a sunny room for the plants and promptly blacked out.

Once upon a time, there was an angel named Morningstar who reached for a friend as he fell and turned to ash. Morningstar was his friend. Our angel-soon-demon could only watch, tears unable to fall, screaming the name of his friend over and over and –

He woke to Aziraphale leaning over him as he laid on the floor of the new room, expression worried worried worried – why was he always worrying the poor angel? Can’t he make anything easy for the man that he loves? His wings ached, his head pounded, his eyes were full of tears and he felt as though he could sleep for a century. Aziraphale helped him to bed – their bed, now – and had the demon summon his wings into existence.

Feathers fell from the wings as soon as they appeared, and Crowley couldn’t help but cry out like a wounded animal. Aziraphale did what he could, kissing and miracleing and massaging, but the damage appeared to have been done.

This is when they learned that Crowley can no longer create demonic miracles.

Crowley drifted from the bedroom to the kitchen for the better part of a week, drinking wine and tea and napping and weeping and –

Aziraphale laid with him at night, arms wrapped around his not-quite-demonic form like he could protect him from whatever was happening to him. Heaven and Hell were forgotten – the fear comes from inside now.

Once upon a time, a demon changed.

=+=

_(What his happening to me?)_

_=+=_

Adam and the kids visited a few weeks after Crowley moved in with Aziraphale. Pepper and Brian were dating which was a little rattling, but Adam had broken up with that girlfriend of his, so, small victories and all that.

At seventeen years old, these were not the same kids that once stared bravely into the face of the four horsemen, but four kids looking bravely into the face of adulthood. (Crowley knew which of those he found to be scarier).

Pepper was going to be a politician, she declared, and Brian was either going to be her campaign manager or a park ranger or a cop or something, he wasn’t sure. Wensleydale was looking into accounting, but Aziraphale and Crowley both worried about the resignation in the boy’s tone as he said such. Adam, though, was going to study archeology but continue his writing hobby and maybe look into getting published, a thought which made Aziraphale very excited.

The weekend was spent at restaurants and museums and sightseeing spots. Adam almost lost his mind in excitement at the natural history museum, Wensleydale looked the most at peace anyone had seen him in weeks when they went for a ‘fancy dinner’ at the Ritz, and Brian and Pepper scared the shit out of the other two kids bouncing to shake the gondola at the top of the London Eye. Aziraphale and Crowley couldn’t get over the feeling that they were babysitting.

“Can you miracle me into Oxford, Aziraphale?” Pepper huffed late at night, snuggled into her sleeping bag on the couch in the back room. Her and Wensleydale had won thumb wars for the couches, and Brian and Adam were shunned to the floor.

“I’m afraid that’d be unfair of me, my child,” Aziraphale smiled fondly.

“What about you, Crowley?” she peered over at him.

Crowley’s smile was tinged with sadness. “Afraid not, Pep.”

Adam looked at him with worry. Of course he bloody knew. Of course.

As Aziraphale and Crowley left the kids to their own devices in favor of bed, Adam followed them out of the room.

“Crowley?” he called from the end of the hallway, much taller and much older than Crowley remembered him being. And hell, when did he get so big? “Would you like to go on a walk?”

That’s how a not-quite-demon and a not-quite-the-antichrist ended up taking a stroll through Soho at a quarter to midnight. Crowley still in his black jeans and button down, and Adam in baggy sweatpants and a band t-shirt, they looked like an odd pair. But they’re the same, they’ve always been the same, they both know. Crowley joked about the Them being his godchildren or something, but Adam has always been _his_.

There was a comfortable silence as they walked. Crowley knew the boy had something to say, but he didn’t want to talk about that right now.

“So what happened with Karen?” Crowley asked.

“Carrie,” Adam corrected, but he smirked all the same. “I don’t know. She decided I was too much of a free-spirit or something. Too unpredictable.” His smile faded into something sadder. “Said I didn’t take anything serious.”

“Well, you’re seventeen. There’ll be other girls.” Crowley bumped shoulders with the younger boy. “ _Better_ girls. Promise.”

Adam nodded. Crowley knew all his assurances wouldn’t fix whatever was going on the boy’s mind, and so they walked in silence for a bit more.

That is, until Adam asked “Do you regret what we did? Saving the world?”

“What?” Crowley stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Now why the hell would I regret that?”

Adam looked at his godfather with something akin to guilt. “Your wings.”

Crowley let out a soft exhale, closing his eyes slowly. Of course. His wings.

“Wings aren’t worth seven billion lives, Adam,” he felt as though his voice was echoing throughout the empty streets. “It’s not worth the world.”

“I can still feel it sometimes, you know?” Adam’s voice shook. Crowley opened his eyes to stare at his godson who seemed hunched. Nervous. “I thought it was done, but. I can hear… Him.”

“Him?” Crowley wanted to console the boy somehow, to hug him and tuck him into bed and protect him.

“My father.”

_Oh._

“It’s over though, Adam.”

“Is it?” Adam looked him dead in the eyes and Crowley’s heart broke at what he saw there: fear. “How can you know?”

“I just do. Aziraphale would’ve heard,” he stepped closer to the younger, putting hands on his shoulders. He didn’t need to stoop all that much to look him in the eyes. “Adam, listen to me. We aren’t hurting anyone ever again, okay? We’re different now.”

“But how?” Adam’s voice cracked. “How did we change? Who changed us?”

Crowley didn’t know. So he said as much.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m _scared_ , Crowley,” a tear rolled down Adam’s cheek.

“So am I,” Crowley didn’t know his words were true until they were out. “I’m so fucking scared, Adam. I’m scared for Aziraphale and for you and for the world, but I’m not afraid _of_ you. I would be panicking if you were anyone else in the world, but because you’re _you_ I know that we’ll be safe.”

Adam was crying big ugly tears. Crowley was reminded that Adam’s growing was nothing. He was still just a kid. Crowley pulled his godson into a hug.

“We are better, Adam. We are so much better than they ever thought we could be.” The not-quite-a-demon hugged the boy a little tighter. “We’re okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

=+=

Once upon a time there was a demon who fought in a war. When the war was over, the demon sat beside a friend and patched her wounds. _It’s over, isn’t it? You saw him didn’t you? He killed Anpiel, didn’t he? It’s over, right?_ she cried. The demon cried too. At the beginning, the demon’s pain was encouraged, you see. There was no humans to fuel the fires yet. So the demon cried. _Yes. It’s over. I promise I promise I promise._

The demon did not know he was lying.

=+=

_(Can a demon rise? Can I become something I’m not? Can I fall backwards into heaven and become worthy of this family again? Can I –)_

_(No. It’s not that easy.)_

_(Then what do I do?)_

_(An angel can fall, a demon can come to be, but once this has been done, the only thing to be done is to fucking **climb.** )_

=+=

Once upon a time, a demon began to climb.

Crowley didn’t go to church – he wanted to make that very clear. He met a priest for coffee semi-regularly, yes, but he wasn’t catholic or anything. Picture that – a catholic demon? Now _that_ would be the end of the world.

But Father Thomas was a good guy, and Crowley, well, he was trying to become good.

They would never agree on God, that was something Crowley accepted rather early. God meant _Savior_ to the father and _Damnation_ to Crowley. The demon couldn’t quite figure out how to put into words his relationship with God, how to explain to such a deeply religious man the feeling of falling, praying the entire way down and asking God to save him when God was the very one who pushed him out.

So they didn’t really talk about God.

But they talked about regret, sometimes.

“I was following orders, trying to do just enough that my boss would leave me alone, but that meant hurting people,” Crowley avoided the father’s eyes. He thought Crowley used to be in a gang. That was the story he’d spun. “And I almost lost what I love most for it. I could’ve – _fuck,_ Father, I asked Zira to kill a child for me. _I_ did that.”

“You were scared, Anthony,” Father Thomas was always so understanding it sometimes made Crowley ache. “Fear can make us do things we don’t understand, make us hurt the people we love. But when we stop being afraid, we open ourselves to either accept what’s been done and seek forgiveness, or to run away and hurt those we love even more.”

“What if I’m not meant to be forgiven?”

Father Thomas smiled sadly. “Then you can start by trying to forgiving yourself.”

=+=

Once upon a time, there was an angel who was cast out of heaven. As he fell, he reached for a friend and, in the end, they both fell. One went on to be a demon. The other didn’t make it. And that’s what they don’t tell you, you know? That some of them didn’t make it.

But Crowley made it. Morningstar didn’t. He watched Morningstar’s form burn into nothing, light sputtering out as the flames lost hold of ash. But it wasn’t Crowley’s fault that he survived.

So he forgives himself for having gotten this far.

=+=

Once upon a time –

_This is not a story book._

_Stop acting like this didn’t happen. Stop acting like none of this is real. Stop it._

_Raphael, do you hear me?_

This is real.

_This is real_.

=+=

Raphael falls from heaven screaming his voice bloody. His body burns and his heart breaks and his prayers go unanswered. Morningstar turns to ash right in front of him and Azrael is somewhere between weeping and shrieking somewhere nearby and Raphael is _burning_.

Time means nothing as he falls. He could be falling for a second or a century or eternity – he doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’t know. Everything is so constant – the pain, the noise, the fear – but he doesn’t grow used to it. It feels fresh, the pain does. He cannot escape it. He wishes he were like Morningstar – at least then it would be over.

And people always say it’s not the fall that kills you, but the impact, and Crowley lands in a pool of boiling sulfur that melts everything the flames didn’t. His very being feels like it’s being ripped apart and rebuilt – atom by atom, he is taken apart. He is nothing but an angel-shaped idea as he boils in that pool, clawing his way out.

When he breaches the surface, he is new.

He hacks and trembles his way to shore, collapsing on his back and looking up up up at heaven far above. He cries, weeps, sobs. He is lost. He is shamed. He is fallen.

Then there are hands pulling him onto his feet, pushing him into line, into battle, into –

Azrael – no longer Azrael, but Abaddon, the demon of death – cries against him after they watch Aziraphale kill Anpiel – no longer Anpiel, but Raum, the crow demon. They are different. Different different different.

And then Lucifer – no longer Lucifer, but Satan, the king of hell – is pulling at his wings, breaking him apart and –

And Crowley woke up in a cold sweat, shooting up into a sitting position, scream still on his lips. Aziraphale was kneeling on the bed beside him, looking like he wanted so badly to reach out, but afraid he would spook the poor demon.

Crowley, mind clouded with panic, tried to manifest his wings because Satan was ripping them apart and that can’t be they’re right –

Searing pain ripped through him, and he contorted his body in agony, almost falling out of bed if not for Aziraphale’s soft miracle. Aziraphale was repeating his name like a prayer, Crowley processed somewhere in his mind. Aziraphale was crying, confused and afraid and – _why am I always worrying the man that I love?_

Crowley felt the angel’s miracle ripple through him, easing the pain enough for him to stop trying to manifest what no longer exists. He breathed heavily, sweat and tears dripping from his face and pitiful sobs bubbling from his throat as he laid in fetal position on the bed. Aziraphale gently laid a hand on his back, and Crowley all but crawled into his lap, clutching the back of the angel’s pajama shirt in his fists tightly and sobbing into his shoulder like a child.

They sat like that until morning, Crowley in the angel’s lap and Aziraphale holding him tight as he could.

They were afraid.

Once upon a time, a demon lost his wings.

=+=

When the sun rose, Crowley was asleep again, cradled against Aziraphale’s chest. He had a fever and there were burns on his back where wings should have manifested.

Healing a demon is tricky business, for an angel. It could hurt them both rather badly if not done carefully. But looking down at the sleeping figure in his lap, Aziraphale knew what he must do.

He set his hands securely on Crowley’s back, right where his wings would be, and pushed.

=+=

Once upon a time, a demon climbed out of hell and an angel swooped down to meet him.

=+=

When Crowley woke, Aziraphale was gone.

His body ached and his head felt as though it was full of cotton, but Crowley stumbled out of bed. He looked in the plant room, in Aziraphale’s study, in the back room of the shop, the front room of the shop, the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom again –

“Anathema?” Crowley gasped into the phone, willing his panic down. “Anathema, is Zira with you? He’s not in the shop and I think he might’ve done something stupid and I – I don’t know what to do _–“_

“What? No, Aziraphale’s not here,” Anathema reacted to the normally cool demon’s panic. “Anthony, what’s going on? What did he do?”

“Fuck fuck fuck!” Crowley screamed into the empty shop, the phone falling from his hands as he gripped his head in his hands. He was kneeling in the middle of the floor and finding white bouncing in front of his vision. His breathing was ragged. He could feel his heart beat beat beating (and it’s a cruel reminder that even demons have a heart) and felt hot tears fall down his face. “Angel, you idiot, please no no no no –“

And Anathema and Newt find him in such a state forty-five minutes later. Newt dropped the pin he’d used to pick the lock and Anathema ran to the demon muttering on the floor, wrapping him in a hug and pressing his face into her neck.

“Breathe, Anthony, breathe with me,” her voice was shaking. “Breathe in… breathe out… breathe in…”

And Crowley could feel himself shaking apart at the seams, clutching the back of his Anathema’s jacket and struggling to breathe along with her. His mind screamed at him and his heart felt as though it were burning in his chest and he couldn’t fucking think –

Once upon a time, Crowley fell fell fell and Aziraphale might’ve just done something so fucking stupid and tried to drag him back up and Crowley doesn’t even know if that’s possible and –

And Anathema was crying along with him then, clutching him tightly as he muttered on about Aziraphale. Newt knelt next to them and wrapped his own arms around them, at an awful loss as of how to help. The three of them cried and cried at what they didn’t yet know if they’d lost.

For the first time in centuries, Crowley prayed.

=+=

_Dear holy Mother, it’s me._

_You once told me to love and I’ve done as you asked. You’ve had me Fall, had me rebel against Hell, had me choose love over what I’m supposed to be over and over. What do you want from me? What are you doing to me?_

_Whatever you have against me, leave him out of it. I understand that I’m meant to be punished, but he’s done nothing wrong. You sent him to protect humanity, and he’s done that. He’s done nothing wrong. Please, God, spare him._

_I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. For six thousand years I’ve had him. I don’t understand how to be without him. Maybe that’s the point. I’ve actually become happy, and that can’t be, now can it? Had to take him. Make him worried and scared and then just take him away from me._

_But he’s good. He’s so good, mother. He can’t fall. Please, please, mother, please keep him safe._

_In God’s name, amen._

_=+=_

Anathema and Newt stayed at the shop. Adam showed up after two days. Tracy and Shadwell visited the following day.

Crowley sat on a couch in the back room wrapped in a blanket. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. He sat with a copy of Agnes Nutter and a thermos. He did not read the book. He did not open the thermos.

Anathema, Shadwell, and Madame Tracy sat with Crowley for hours, trying to understand what happened. When they’re done, Crowley made them leave. Leave his home – _their_ home, because it was fucking empty and Aziraphale was gone and -

That night Adam curled up next to him on the couch, leaning against him like he used to as a younger boy. He was eighteen now. He’s not a child anymore. Crowley wrapped an arm around him and the boy buried his face in his shirt. Together they cried because they don’t know what’s to come.

“Will he come back?” Crowley whispered.

“I don’t know, Crowley. I don’t know.” Adam let his godfather hug him to his chest.

=+=

Once upon a time Crowley opened the thermos.

Once upon a time, he knew what he was – but he didn’t know why – but he had to show himself – but if he was wrong –

He poured a pool of holy water into his hand. On his chest. Over his head.

He did not burn.

=+=

Once upon a time, an angel went missing from heaven.

=+=

Adam was the only guest who remained at the Crowley-Fell residence and bookshop a week after Aziraphale went missing. Crowley reminded him of school and his parents and the Them, but Adam stayed put. He bustled about the shop making tea and dusting and reading and generally trying to be a constant presence while not losing his mind from the boredom. But there was maybe an hour on the seventh day after the angel’s disappearance when Adam had gone out for a stroll – it was the first time Crowley had been left alone since. He waved the boy off, sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee and a book he knew he wouldn’t read. The bell jingling announced the boy’s departure.

As soon as Adam was gone, Crowley felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle.

“What have you done with him?”

Crowley whipped around, and there stood Hastur.

Crowley jerked backwards at the sight of him, all but falling out of the chair. It’d been almost six years since he’d seen the demon, and he hadn’t changed a bit: same black eyes and stupid jacket and toad upon his head.

“Duke Hastur, long time no see!” Crowley feigned nonchalance as he always did. “How’s Hell without m-“

“You are such an idiot, Crowley,” Hastur spat. Crowley’s mouth snapped shut. “He was supposed to fall. He got to heaven, and they said to expect him shortly, but he never came. So what have you done? What did you do with him?”

Crowley didn’t respond for a moment, his brain catching up with the demon’s words.

“ _Supposed to f –_ Wait wait, hold on, he – did he or did he not fall?” Crowley sat up a little straighter, again willing away the panic building again in his chest.

“He was pushed out of heaven, but he never got to hell,” Hastur sneered. “So tell me, Crowley, did your little antichrist friend somehow make him un-Fall-able? Did you put the last of your reserves into saving him? Do you know where he is?”

“I don’t – No, I didn’t do anything, I didn’t –“ Crowley took a shuddering breath.

Once upon a time –

_Morningstar_.

“ _No_. No no no – “ Crowley felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach, leaning forward and putting his face in his hands. “I don’t have him,” Crowley felt numb. “Hastur, how much of falling do you remember?”

Hastur flinched, closing his eyes and cinching his lips into a pained purse. He didn’t respond.

“Because some didn’t make it,” Crowley shook his head slowly. “They burn up as th – “

“ _I am aware_ ,” Hastur sneered, the toad on his head seeming to quiver.

For a moment they just stare at each other, Crowley wondering how much the demon before him remembers, and Hastur wondering the same about the man in front of him. You see, demons don’t talk about a time before. They aren’t supposed to remember a time before. But Crowley looked at Hastur, suddenly upset and angry and trying to hard to quell whatever is happening in his head, and he wondered if they aren’t supposed to remember because none of them can forget it, hard as they try.

“Why are you here, Hastur?” Crowley sounded on the verge of breaking. “You must’ve known he wasn’t here. So what are you doing? Rubbing it in? Gloating?”

Hastur slowly shook his head. He swallowed thickly. “I was hoping I was wrong, actually.”

Crowley blinked behind his sunglasses. “Wrong about what?”

“That the bloody angel is dead.”

“Now we don’t know that –“

“When they burn they burn in Hellfire, Crowley, you know that,” Hastur’s voice was edged with… with apology? Crowley almost scoffed at the very notion. “He’s gone.”

“So then you did come to gloat?” Crowley felt anger rising in him.

“I lost someone too, you know.” Hastur suddenly snapped. “Maybe this is penance: an eye for an eye. You killed Ligur, so your angel dies.”

Crowley had the decency to look ashamed.

“And that’s fair and all that, but that’s also shit.”

Crowley’s head snapped up at that. “What?”

Hastur took a breath. “When – When Ligur died, I didn’t have time to process what had happened, but as soon as the apocalypse was over I did, and I kept thinking I’d rather it have been me.” The Duke leveled Crowley with a stare obviously daring him to say something clever. “I would’ve done anything to keep him, but he’s dead. And now Aziraphale is dead. I understand what you’re going through because this is what _you_ did to _me_. But I wish it hadn’t happened to you because it hurts something awful. Wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even you.”

Crowley didn’t know how to respond to that. He didn’t need to. Hastur muttered “I’m sorry for your loss” and it sounded _genuine_ and Crowley didn’t really know what was going on anymore but just as quick as he came, Hastur was gone and Crowley was again alone.

Crowley was alone.

Aziraphale was dead.

Adam came back to find Crowley sobbing.

=+=

Once upon a time there was an angel – a different angel, that is. He all but dove out of heaven headfirst, the flames around him inspiring laughter instead of screams. He was a sick bastard, even by most of the Fallen’s standards. This angel fell to demon and took the name Hastur.

Once upon a time there was a war. Our demon Hastur swung through the fields of the ether killing ruthlessly with glee. He watched them die – Eniel and Kenathon – and he grinned the whole time. He kept an eye out for only one angel in specific. But the angels were numerous, and the battle field was large so –

Once upon a time, a demon stood in front of an angel in the middle of a war. Recognition flashed in both their eyes. The war went on around them, but in this moment there was no angel nor demon, just two souls who wanted the love the other had to offer.

Hastur reached out a hand. The angel ignored the hand and kissed him instead. And well, here we see the origin of the saying ‘falling in love’ because that is what the angel did for the demon before him.

Hastur was a demon worth falling for, Ligur decided.

And six thousand years later, Hastur was a demon worth dying for. Ligur had no regrets.

=+=

See, Crowley didn’t want to be a demon, and somehow, that wish had come true, he thinks.

So he tried to live as a human.

He opened the shop two weeks after Aziraphale d- disappeared. He got coffee with Father Thomas. He did his utmost to sell absolutely nothing. He yelled at his plants who no longer quaked in fear but seemed to humor him all the same. Adam left a week after the shop opened back up, but he was soon replaced by Wensleydale who seemed to be on a mission to read every cookbook in the whole store.

“You can leave whenever you want, Wens,” Crowley repeated day in and day out, never quite having the heart to kick the kid out.

“You can talk whenever you want, Mr. Crowley,” Wensleydale would pipe right back.

The boy – well, now young man, would make dinner every night from the cookbook and Crowley would do dishes. Wensleydale would go to sleep on the couch in the backroom and Crowley would fall asleep often times at the kitchen table with a bottle of wine in hand because he couldn’t sleep in his bed – _their_ bed alone.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Crowley finally asked one day. Wensleydale gave him an odd smile.

“Not sure what I’d do if I were there, truth be told.”

Crowley cocked an eyebrow. “No accounting, eh?”

“Not if you dragged me kicking and screaming, Mr. Crowley,” Wensleydale sighed.

The next day Crowley brought Wensleydale to the Ritz, bought a fine bottle of red, and introduced him to the chef. Wensleydale had an internship by the end of the night.

Four weeks after Aziraphale disappeared, Crowley began selling some of the little saplings and sprouts he’d been growing. Eight weeks after Aziraphale disappeared, Wensleydale moved in to an apartment with one of the servers at the Ritz. Twenty weeks after Aziraphale disappeared, Crowley called Father Thomas and drunkenly swore out God and Satan and all of them and hung up on a very worried priest. Twenty and a half weeks after Aziraphale disappeared, Crowley went to his first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

Life kept happening.

Crowley wished it wouldn’t.

=+=

Once upon a time there was an angel that dragged a demon out of Hell.

=+=

It was six years, ten months and twenty-two days since the world did not end.

It was eleven months and fifteen days since Aziraphale disappeared.

Crowley idly browsed through apartment listings on his laptop, paying little attention to the shop around him. He clicked on one or two results, even bookmarked a few to come back to, but he knew he wouldn’t ever set up an appointment with the landlord. He was sure that Anathema and Newt would be happy to run the store, or possibly even Brian (If that sorry sod still couldn’t find anything better), but he knew he wouldn’t actually be able to leave this bookshop that had become home.

It was four thirty-seven, and he planned to close at five, so he played the waiting game of ignoring the few remaining customers until he could nag them to leave. Pepper and Brian were in town, he knew, staying at Wensleydale and his boyfriend’s apartment (and oh, wasn’t it a surprise when Crowley caught those two kissing between the bookshelves in the shop a few weeks ago – he had bullied the boy lightly for not telling him), but Crowley had waved them out of the shop after an hour, not keen on letting them waste their vacation in a dusty bookshop with a sad little snake.

So he browsed apartments he knew he’d never live in and ignored people he knew he’d never sell to. This was his life now.

At four fifty-eight, the last customer left on their own and Crowley let out a sigh. He stood and flipped the sign to closed, stretching his tired limbs. He itched for a drink, but it’d been a month since his last relapse in which he drank an entire bottle of whiskey and then some and called Anathema, Adam, Pepper and Wensleydale and told each of them in kind that they were his favorite child. (Brian laughed his ass off at that and told Crowley he was honored to be the second favorite child.) So instead of drinking, Crowley decided he’d clean up the shop a bit and maybe call up the kids to meet for dinner.

Pleased with his evening plan, Crowley started towards the back to find the feather duster and broom.

“ _I’m trying to give the place a good honest clean, my dear”_ echoed the voice of an angel in his memory. He ignored it as he disappeared into the backroom.

What he couldn’t ignore was the ring of the bell above the shop door signaling someone had entered.

“Hello, we’re closed! Unless that’s you Wens? Is Pep and Brian with you?” Crowley yelled from the back, grabbing a duster and going back to the front of the shop. There was no answer, and Crowley felt a sense of unease grow in his chest. “Wens, don’t try and be funny no-“

Crowley emerged from behind the bookcases only to freeze dead in his tracks, quip dying in his throat. The feather duster slipped from his hands.

A man stood in the center of the bookstore, hand lightly brushing over the covers on the display table in the middle of the entry. The man looked tired, bags beneath his eyes and hands quivering, but he retained his perfect posture. He wore an off-white button down that looked softer than possible, a simple tan jacket, tartan scarf, and faded jeans. His beautiful blue eyes were shining, tears slowly trickling down his cheeks, and they swept across the room like he was trying to convince himself it was real without overwhelming himself. Those eyes settled on Crowley, still stuck in shock at the back of the shop.

For a moment, the two men just stared at each other.

Crowley expected the man in front of him to disappear. He expected to blink and for it to all have just been a hallucination. He had been alone for almost a year and he was fighting so fucking hard and maybe a little insanity made sense for him, you know? Maybe this is just what happens to humans who go through the worst possible thing? Maybe this was one of Hell’s little tricks? Maybe Heavens? Maybe he was going to wake up any moment alone in his – _their_ bed and find himself deeply inhaling the scent of Aziraphale’s pillow where his scent still lightly lingers. He thinks maybe God is torturing him. He thinks maybe his prayers haven’t fallen on deaf ears, but rather on cruel ears and –

“Crowley?” the man’s voice cracked on his name.

Crowley’s throat bubbled with a sob. “Oh, _angel_ –“

And it was like a dam had broken, both men moving at the same time towards each other, meeting in the middle. Crowley threaded his fingers into milky white hair – and oh, it was much longer than he remembered – and pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s and stroked a hand down his jawline, down his chest, back up his arm, anywhere to prove to himself that this was _his_ Aziraphale. Aziraphale himself snaked one hand around Crowley’s waist and the other gripped the fabric of Crowley’s shirt like a lifeline.

They were both crying, both sobbing out “I’m sorry” and “I missed you” and “I love you” and “I thought you were dead, angel” and when Aziraphale finally shifted and pressed his lips against Crowley’s, the two practically melted into each other. It felt like coming home. It felt like safety. Crowley didn’t think he’d ever feel safe again.

“You have _so much_ explaining to do, love,” Crowley whispered against his lips.

“Not now,” Aziraphale’s hands began toying with the buttons of Crowley’s shirt.

“Not now,” Crowley agreed vehemently, leading the angel towards the stairs and their bedroom.

=+=

Once upon a time, Aziraphale woke in the morning to his best friend, the love of his life, _Crowley._ With Crowley’s head nestled into the not-quite-an-angel’s shoulder and his fingers still entangled in Aziraphale’s own on the angel’s bare stomach, Aziraphale considered the subtle changes to his partner. His hair was back to shoulder-length, his hands felt slightly rougher and his limbs slightly thinner. Aziraphale mourned the year lost, gently dragging a hand through Crowley’s hair. Crowley shifted in his sleep, his lips absently brushing against Aziraphale’s skin.

The sun rose slowly over the London skyline.

Thus began the first morning of man.

=+=

The text was sent to the ‘family group chat’ (which was called ‘Medium Place Sqwad :p’, thanks Brian) at 11:32 am:

_QueenCrowley: zira’s home family meeting. sushi for dinner sound good?_

And the subsequent messages were pretty much what the ex-demon expected.

_Anathema: ????? We’re getting ready to leave now we’ll be there in an hour??_  
PigNewton: is he okay?  
_BadLuckBrian: CROWLEY ARE YOU SURE TEXT A GOOD WAY TO ANNOUNCE THIS?_  
Pepperonni: what the actual fuck Crowley you almost killed wens w shock  
SGT.Shadwell: We will be there ASAP  
Atom: @Anathema @PigNewton pick me up plz I’m at my parents house

Wensleydale used his key to enter the shop at 11:52 am, Brian and Pepper at his heels. Crowley and Aziraphale were pretty much expecting them to come as soon as they were able and so they sat, dressed and with cups of tea, at the kitchen table in wait.

“Back here!” Crowley called as he heard the bell above the door chime. Three pairs of feet marched into the kitchen, and they promptly froze. Aziraphale smiled at the three kids, tears in his eyes, as he set down his tea and stood.

Crowley could see all four of them trying to think of the right thing to say, but there were truly no words, so Aziraphale just opened his arms and the kids all went in for the group hug, tears falling from all their eyes, Brian all but sobbing into the angel’s shirt.

“I’ll explain once everyone is here, alright?” Aziraphale said.

Shadwell and Madame Tracy arrived about half an hour later, and there was a second wave of tears only interrupted by Crowley nagging them for speeding – “You can’t get from Goring to London in under an hour!” “I smell a hypocrite, demon.” – Madame Tracy set about making tea for everyone even though she still sniffled and muttered “I swear you kids will be the death of me” under her breath.

When Anathema, Newt, and Adam came, all three hugged Aziraphale as Anathema and Adam stutter on about “Why couldn’t we sense you? Where did you go? We looked for you every fucking day.” And Aziraphale decided he will likely never stop crying. Adam then instantly went to hug Crowley next, and _oh,_ Crowley was crying too. He wondered how long that had been going on.

They all settled onto the couches and armchairs in the back room, and Aziraphale sat up very straight as he began his tale, Crowley gripping his hand and leaning into his side.

This was his tale: Once upon a time, there was an angel that dragged a demon out of Hell. As a result, both were caught somewhere in the middle.

“Angels exist on a sort of spectrum. There are those in Heaven and those in Hell, and when you exist somewhere in the middle it can be excruciating,” Aziraphale described. Crowley shivered. Excruciating was one way to put it. “Well, Crowley was approaching the middle and it was causing him a great deal of pain. Sometimes being in the middle can kill an angel.”

Aziraphale looked to Crowley, asking permission to share this part of the story. Crowley gave a subtle nod and thought of Morningstar who didn’t make it past the middle.

“The night I, well, I suppose from your perspective the night I disappeared, Crowley woke up in the middle of the night screaming something awful. He had a nightmare and panicked and tried to manifest his wings. By this point we essentially knew that Crowley wasn’t fully a demon anymore, being unable to cast demonic miracles, and so it ended up just hurting him. He was inconsolable and I didn’t know what to do so I healed him and…” Aziraphale looked to Crowley. “I’m not sure what I did, if I’m being honest. I just sort of… pushed?”

“You miracled me into a human, angel,” Crowley butted in. “Demons can’t exist in the middle, but humans can.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale coughed. “Whatever I did, it attracted Heaven’s eye and Gabriel retrieved me. He told me that healing a demon and changing what he is was the final straw, and I was going to Fall.” Crowley tensed, ready to relive his own fall with Aziraphale’s story. “And I did fall, certainly, but I… I fell halfway. I was burning and… and then all of a sudden I was falling apart. I was on earth in millions of pieces and I thought for certain I was done for but... It took me almost eight months to piece myself back together, and another three to get here. I came together in Brazil, and it took me some time to get money for a plane ticket and… and now I’m here.”

For a moment there was silence as the angel’s story settled in all their minds. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and kissed his temple.

“So are you still an angel then?” Adam broke the silence. “You don’t feel like an angel.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “No, I’m not. I’m human or some equivalent, I suppose.”

“Why didn’t you call?” Newt asked next. “If you’ve been on earth for three months, then why didn’t you call? We could’ve bought you a ticket or –“

“I couldn’t contact you,” Aziraphale said, suddenly squeezing Crowley’s hand in tension. “I wasn’t allowed.”

“Allowed by who, dear?” Madame Tracy piped.

“By God.” And they fell silent again. “She told me if I wanted the life I left behind so badly, I was going to have to fight for it. So, I did.”

And no one was quite sure how to respond to that.

Wensleydale adjusted his glasses. “Well now that you’re back, will you convince Mr. Crowley to stop looking at flats in Cardiff?”

Everyone chuckled lightly at that. Aziraphale gave Crowley a questioning look, but Crowley only shrugged and blushed.

“Don’t need another flat anymore,” Crowley declared, looking at his angel with open eyes, sunglasses left upstairs. “Home is here. With you.”

Aziraphale smiled and kissed him. The kids made noises somewhere between a cheer and “Ewww!” and the adults laughed.

Once upon a time, an angel came home.

=+=

“Have you ever met God, Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered into the dark that night.

And Crowley remembers holding her hand among galaxies, remembers showing her his creations and smiling up at her like a child.

“I showed her the stars.” Crowley idly played with his angel’s hair. “And she threw me out of heaven.”

Aziraphale kissed his temple and held him a little tighter. “She’s a real bitch.”’

Crowley’s laugh could be heard from the streets.

=+=

“Did it hurt?” Aziraphale whispered the next morning at breakfast.

“When I fell from heaven?” Crowley’s voice held humor, but he froze with his coffee halfway to his lips.

“Well, yes.”

Crowley set down his mug. “You know it did, angel.”

“I thought I was dead.”

“So did I.” Crowley grabbed his hand. “And it hurt even worse than falling.”

=+=

“Hastur and Ligur? You’re lying to me, aren’t you!”

“No, I swear on my life, angel.”

“Next you’re going to tell me Adam and Warlock are an item, you old fool.”

“Well…”

“ _No._ ”

"No no, of course not. But Wensleydale has a boyfriend he’s living with now and Brian and Pepper moved in together, too.”

“… _What?!”_

=+=

Seven years after the world doesn’t end, Crowley bought a ring: a simple golden band with a wing design on the outside and “ _Ineffable”_ inscribed on the inside.

He took him to the Ritz and they walked through the park as the sun set, hand in hand. Crowley stopped at their favorite park bench, and Aziraphale sat, but Crowley kneeled. He knelt on one knee and pulled a small black box from his pocket. Aziraphale had tears in his eyes and six thousand years flashed through his mind as Crowley asked “Will you marry me?”

He said yes.

=+=

The sun shone brightly on the fields of Tadfield.

On Anathema and Newt’s two-year anniversary, they had a party. Friends from town and family members intermingled with their odd little apocalyptic family in the backyard of the Jasmine cottage. Wensleydale and his boyfriend seemed charmed by Anathema’s mother who herself was an amateur chef. Shadwell, Adam’s dad, and Pepper discussed politics in the corner of the garden, all nursing their own drinks, while Tracy, Adam’s mom, and Newt’s mom all swapped gossip over wine coolers. Brian, Adam, and Newt took turns throwing balls for Dog and humoring Newt’s littlest cousins, who toddled about and giggled every time Dog yapped. Anathema was laughing in the center of the backyard, dancing with Newt’s sister and Adam’s girlfriend (who Anathema admitted she likes quite a bit).

Aziraphale and Crowley sat in the grass off to the side of the crowd, Aziraphale sitting criss-cross and idly stroking fingers through Crowley’s hair, who laid with his head in the ex-angel’s lap.

“Two years since their wedding,” Aziraphale mused. “That means two years since I kissed you for the first time.”

“You mean two years since _I_ kissed you for the first time,” Crowley countered, smiling up at his now fiancée with love shining in his eyes. “I should’ve done it years and years ago, angel.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead, his temple, his lips. “We have now. That’s what matters, love.”

Crowley grabbed the angel’s hand and pressed a kiss into his palm.

“Can you braid daisies in my hair?” Crowley asked. And has Aziraphale ever said no to him before?

Crowley almost fell asleep like that in the warm, fragrant grass with Aziraphale’s fingers carefully twisting and weaving his shoulder-length hair with daisies, the sounds of his family’s laughter filtering into his ears.

Then the fingers paused.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet.

“Hmm?” Crowley lazily opened his eyes. Aziraphale was looking at him with glassy eyes. Crowley’s lips twisted into a frown. “What is it, angel?”

Fingers gently touched a spot along the demon’s hairline. Aziraphale smiled. “You’re going grey, my love.”

The two of them just looked at each other for a moment, frozen with the possibility of what that could mean. In Crowley’s six thousand years he had never gotten a singular grey hair. He had never had _any_ signs of aging – neither of them had.

But life goes on now. Real life.

Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it gently. A laugh bubbled in his chest, and it came out breathy and shocked against the angel’s palm.

“A symptom of being human, I guess,” Crowley’s breath warmed the angel’s palm. “I guess that answers the whole mortality question.”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale laughed lightly. He brushed fingers down the man’s jaw. “A happy ending is in order, then, isn’t it?”

And Crowley thinks of many things in this moment. He thinks of God, thinks of Satan, of Ligur and Hastur, of a newborn baby in a Bentley. He considers books in the 1940s and a flaming sword in the beginning, a silly mug with stars and a room full of plants. The world – _their_ world, of horsemen and archangels, of growing children and big ideas. And in that yard filled with witches, witchfinders, parents and children, an antichrist, a hellhound, and most of all, love, Crowley shook his head.

“I think we’ve already got our happy ending, angel.”

=+=

Once upon a time, there was an angel and a demon, and they fell in love.

But that was then.

Anthony J. Crowley and Ezra Fell live in a flat above a bookstore in Soho. Truth be told, they don’t sell many books, but they sell plenty of plants.

There are young people that come around the shop often, but apparently none are their kids. There is also a lovely elderly couple, but apparently they are not either of the men’s parents. Rumor has it, one of those kids is the best-selling author Anathema Device-Pulsifer, writer of the thrilling fantasy novel _Foretold_. Other rumors say one is upcoming politician and activist Pepper Moonchild. It is no rumor, however, that one of the kids is Adam Young who regularly rounds up kids from the neighborhood and gives all of them his employee discount on a trip to the Museum of Natural history.

It is also no rumor that the two men are very much in love.

They marry on a bright day in September in St. James Park. Crowley starts crying the second Aziraphale begins his vows, and it doesn’t stop until the reception. The wedding is all family and friends, and their first dance is to “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”. Crowley insists on throwing a bouquet, and Pepper turns all shades of red when she ends up catching it.

The stars come out that night despite the light pollution from the city. (Crowley might’ve called it a miracle, but those days were over.) Aziraphale and Crowley stand in the grass away from the reception, taking a moment of peace together. Crowley’s arm slung over his husband’s – _his husband, oh, what a beautiful thing –_ shoulder, they look up at the stars and laugh and laugh. Aziraphale gently traces a finger along Crowley’s jaw, placing a kiss on his neck.

“You know,” Crowley says. “I used to think the greatest thing I’d ever do was all that.” He gestures to the stars.

“Oh? And do tell, what _is_ the greatest thing you’ll ever do?” Aziraphale leans into his husband.

“Why I thought that’d be obvious, angel,” Crowley’s bare eyes turn to his angel. He smiles easily. “The greatest thing I’ll ever have the pleasure of doing is loving you.”

Once upon a time, there was two men who were once angels who saved the world.

Aziraphale softly takes Crowley’s face in his hands and presses a kiss into his lips.

The years to come would be hard, full of the pains of growing old and watching loved ones do the same. There’d always be wars and politics and death, but that came with the territory. For every tear shed, there was a moment of pure joy. For every broken heart, there was a kiss there to heal it. They were left to live their lives, and live they did.

So, we’ll leave them here, I think, staring at the stars, excited live out the rest of their lives together. With that, there’s only one thing left to say.

Are you ready?

_And they lived happily ever after._

_=+=_

**Author's Note:**

> come scream with me on tumblr @tripleforte


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